CANTATA-141

11

Seated in the back of the jet-hopper as it made its return flight across the Atlantic, the Peking man in his blue cloth cap and toga-like robe declared, 'My name is Bill Smith.' At least, that was the way the TD linguistics machine handled the utterance. It was the best the circuits could do.

Bill Smith, Sal Heim thought. What an appropriate name the machine's given it! As American as apple pie. He miserably inspected his wristwatch, for the tenth time. Aren't we ever going to get back across this ocean ? he wondered. It did not seem so. Time, for him, stood motionless, and he knew who to blame; it was Bill Smith's fault. Riding with him in the 'hopper was for Sal Heim a nightmare, yet totally and completely lucidly real.

'Hello, Bill Smith,' Dillingsworth was saying into the mike, now. 'We are glad to know you. We admire your science and efforts as represented by your roads, houses, gliders, ships, motor and clothing. In fact, wherever we look, we see indications of your people's ability.'

The linguistics machine produced a hubbub of grunts, squeals and yips, to which the Peking man listened with slack-jawed intensity; his small, brow-overlain eyes glazed with the effort of paying attention. With a groan, Sal Heim turned away and looked out the 'hopper window instead.

And to think I handed in my resignation over a little matter like the disagreement about George

Walt, he reflected. What was that compared with this ?

To Jim Briskin, seated beside him, Sal said bitingly, I'm certainly going to be interested to hear your next speech. Got any idea what you're going to say, Jim ? For instance, about the emigration situation as regards this new development.' He waited, but Jim did not answer; hunched over, Jim somberly scrutinized his interlocked fingers. 'Maybe you could say it's going to be like the

Mason-Dixon Line,' Sal continued. 'With them on one side and us on the other. Of course, that's if these Pekes agree. And they might just not.'

'Why should they agree ?' Jim said.

'Well, we could offer them the alternative of total annihilation, if Bill Schwarz can see his way clear in that direction.'

'That's out of the question,' Jim said. 'And I know Schwarz would back me up. They've got just as much right to exist as we, especially over here. You know it and I know it and they know it.'

'Is that what you're going to say in your speech ? That it's their planet - just after having promised that all the bibs can cross over and become farmers ?'

Slowly, Jim said, 'I'm ... beginning to see what you mean.' His lean face twisted wrathfully.

'Advise me, then. Do your job.'

'This planet,' Sal said, 'will still be able to absorb seventy million bibs. They can fit in on the

North American land-mass. But there's going to be friction. People - and those deformed things -

are going to get killed. It's going to be roughly a reenactment of the situation when the first white colonists landed in the New World. You see ? The Pekes in North America will be driven back, step by step, until the continent is cleared of them; they might as well resign themselves to that, and you might as well, too. I mean, it's inevitable.'

'And then what ?'

'And then the trouble - the real trouble - comes. Because sooner or later it's going to occur to some group or some corporation that if we can use North America, we can use Europe and Asia as well. And then the fight that was fought out on both worlds fifty or a hundred thousand years ago is going to take place again, only not with flint hatchets. It'll be with tactical A-bombs and nerve gas and lasers, on our side, and on their side ..." He paused, ruminating.'... with whatever they took out the QB satellite by. Who knows ? Maybe in a million and a half years they've managed to stumble over and come up with a source of power we have no knowledge of.

Something that's beyond our conception. Had you thought of that ?'

Jim shrugged.

'And if we press them far enough,' Sal said, 'they'll have to use it on us. They'd have no choice.'

'We can always slam down the door. Close down the nexus by turning off the power supply of the 'scuttler.'

'But by that time there'll be seventy million colonists over there. Can we strand them ?'

'Of course not.'

'Then don't talk about "slamming the door down". That's not going to be the answer. The moment the first bib passes over, that's out.' Sal pondered. 'That Bill Smith, back there; for him this is like a ride in a flying saucer would be for one of us. Think what he can tell his playmates when he gets back home. If he ever does.'

'What's a flying saucer ?'

Sal said, 'Back in the twentieth century a number of people claimed ...'

'I remember,' Jim nodded.

'If you were president already,' Sal said, 'if you held formal authority, you could meet with some enormous dignitary from their world, assuming they have a government of some kind. But right now you're just a private individual; you can't bind this country to anything. And Schwarz, if history repeats itself, won't do a damn thing because he knows he'll soon be out of office. He'll leave it to be dumped in your lap. And by January it'll probably be too late to settle this peacefully.'

'Phil Danville,' Jim said, 'can write me a speech that'll capture this situation and explain it.'

Sal guffawed. 'Like hell he can. Nobody is going to be able to capture this situation, especially an intellectual simp like Phil Danville. But let him try. Let's see what Danville can come up with.'

Say by tomorrow night, Sal thought. Or the day after, at the very latest.

From his pocket he brought out the itinerary, unfolded it carefully and began to study it.

'I have to speak in Cleveland,' Jim said. 'Tonight.'

In the back of the 'hopper, the Peking man Bill Smith, by means of the linguistics equipment, was saying,'... metal is evil. It belongs inside the Earth with the dead. It is part of the once-was, where everything goes when its time is over.'

'Philosophy,' Sal said in disgust. 'Listen to him.' He jerked his head.

'And that's why you don't build with it ?' Dillingsworth asked, speaking into the mike of the machine.

'We have areas we avoid,' Jim said to Sal. 'You'd think twice before making a human skull into a drinking cup and using it every day.'

'Is that what Pekes do ?' Sal said, horrified.

'I believe I read that somewhere about them,' Jim said. 'At least their ancestors did. The practice may have disappeared by now.' He added, "They were cannibals.'

'Great,' Sal said and resumed studying the itinerary. "That's just what we need to win the election.'

'Schwarz would have brought it out,' Jim said, 'eventually.'

Glancing out the 'hopper window at the ocean below, Sal said, 'I'll be relieved to get out of here.

And you won't catch me emigrating. I'd rather do like your folks and give Mars a try, even if I

wound up dying of thirst. At least I wouldn't get eaten. And nobody would use my skull for a drinking cup.' He felt severely depressed, meditating about that, and he did his best to reinvolve his attention in the itinerary.

How's the first Negro President of the United States going to go about handling the presence of a planetful of dawn linen who've proved themselves capable of constructing a fairly adequate civilization ? Sal Heim asked himself. A race that, in theory, shouldn't have been able to get past the flint-chipping stage. But after all, each of us started out chipping flint. What's been proved here is that given time enough .,.

I know I'm right, Sal thought. There isn't a single legal basis on which these Pekes can be denied full rights under our laws - except, of course, that they're not U.S. citizens

Was that the only barrier ? He had to laugh. What a way to stop an invasion of Earth by denying the invaders citizenship.

But there was, sadly, a joker in that, too. Because U.S. citizens would be emigrating to this world, in which the jet-hopper now droned, and in this universe U.S. citizenship had no significance; the Pekes were here first and could prove prior residence. So it would be wise not to raise the issue of citizenship after all...

What'll we do, then, Sal asked himself, when our people and the Pekes begin to interbreed ? Do you want your daughter to marry a Peke ? he asked himself fiercely. Now the Ku Klux Klanners really have their job cut out for thorn.

It was potentially pretty nasty.

At the front door of Pethel Jiffi-scuttler Sales & Service, Stuart Hadley stood leaning on his autonomic broom, watching the people go past. With Dar Pethel gone today, a weight had been lifted from him; he could do what he pleased.

As he stood there mentally magnifying his new status by a few well-chosen daydreams, a slender red-haired shape, full-bosomed and young, all at once strolled up to him, her lace stormy.

'They've closed the satellite down,' Sparky said, massive, defeated bitterness.

Awakened, Hadley said, 'W-what ?'

'George Walt, that no-good crink, kicked us out this morning. It's all over up there. I have absolutely no idea why. So I came right here to you. What'll we do ?' With her toe she nudged a bit of rubbish from the sidewalk into the gutter, glumly.

He reacted. It was superb corto-thalamic response; he was all there, as alert as fine steel. The time had arrived for one of those unique, binding-type decisions which would shape everything to come. 'You set out for the right place, Sparky,' he informed her.

'I know that, Stuart.'

'We'll emigrate.' There it was, the decision.

She glanced sharply up. 'How ? Where ? To Mars ?'

'I love you,' Hadley announced to her. He had given it a great deal of thought. The hell with his wife Mary and his job - everything that made up his little routine life.

"Thank you, Stuart,' Sparky said. 'I'm glad you do. But explain where you and I are going to go, for chrissakes, especially where they can't find us.'

'I've got contacts,' Hadley said. 'Believe me, have I got contacts! You know where I can put us ?'

In a flash he had it all planned; it leaped fully formed, completed, into his busy brain. 'Get set

Sparky.'

I'm set.' She eyed him.

'Across. To that virgin world Jim Briskin talked about in his Chicago speech. I can actually - and

I'm not kidding you - get us there.'

She was impressed. Her eyes grew large. 'Gee.'

'So go and pack your things,' Hadley instructed her rapidly. 'Give me your vidnumber at your conapt. As soon as I've got the details set up, I'll call you and we'll take off for Washington, D.C.'

He explained, "That's where the nexus is, right now. At TD. That makes it awkward, naturally, but we can still do it.'

'How'll we live over there, Stuart ?

'Let me handle that.' He had worked it all out. It practically blinded him, it was so entire. 'Get going - that damn law that forbids us to meet down here, we don't want to get picked up before we can get away.' And, in addition to the police, he also was thinking about Mary. Every now and then his wife dropped by the store. One glimpse of Sparky and it would be all over; he would be married the rest of his life, possibly two hundred more years. It was not much of a prospect.

On the inside of a match-folder Sparky wrote her vidnumber and gave it to him. He put it away reverently in his billfold and then resumed sweeping with the autonomic broom.

'You're sweeping ? ' Sparky exclaimed. 'I thought we were going to emigrate from Earth; isn't that what you just now said ?'

'I'm waiting,' Hadley explained patiently. 'For my top-level contact. Nobody can cross over unless they've got someone they know placed up high, there, at TD. My contact's got carte blanche at TD; he's a wheel. But I have to wait for him to get back here.' He explained, 'He's been at TD all day, on important business.'

'Ding-aling,' Sparky said, awed.

He gave her a swift, brief goodbye kiss and sent her off; her slim figure receded down the sidewalk and then was lost, for the time being, to sight. Hadley swept on, plotting in his mind the last, infinitely tiny details of his scheme. Everything - unfortunately - depended on Darius Pethel.

I hope he shows up soon, Hadley said to himself. Before I jump clear out of my skin.

Two hours later, Darius Pethel appeared from the direction of the all day parking lot, his face gray. Mumbling, he passed by Hadley, who still stood out front, and vanished into the store.

Something was bothering Dar, Hadley realized. Bad time to prevail on him, but what choice did he have ? He followed after Pethel and found him in the rear office, hanging up his coat.

Pethel said, 'What a day. I wish I could tell you what we ran into over there, but I can't. It's classified; we all agreed. At least we got back here. That's something.' He began rolling up his sleeves and taking an initial look at the day's mail on his desk.

'You've really got those bigshots at TD over a barrel.' Hadley said. 'You could whip that 'scuttler out of there any time, so fast it'd make their heads swim. And then where'd they be ? In fact I'd say you're one of the most important persons in the universe, right now.'

Seated at his desk, Pethel eyed him sourly.

Huskily, Stuart Hadley said, 'How about it, Dar ?'

'How about what ?'

'Set it up so I can go across.'

Pethel stared at him as if he were deranged, and repellently so. 'Get out of here.' He began tearing open his mail.

'I mean it,' Hadley said. I'm in love, Dar. I'm leaving. You can get me - the two of us - out of here and across to the other side where we can start our lives over.'

'First of all,' Pethel said, 'you don't know what's over there; you don't have the slightest idea."

'I know what Jim Briskin said in his speech.'

'Briskin, when he made that speech, hadn't been over there either. Second, Mary would never ...'

'I don't mean Mary,' Hadley said. I'm going with someone else, the first person I ever met who really understood and I could talk to instead of live out a fake role in front of. Sparky and I are going to be the first couple to emigrate and take up a new life in a virgin world half-way down the tube of that Jiffi-scuttler. Don't try to talk me out of it; it's impossible. Write out some sort of note that'll get me into TD's labs. We're depending on you, Dar. Two human lives ...'

'Aw for god's sake,' Pethel protested. 'How are you going to live over there ?'

'How did Cally Vale live ?'

'Sands transported one of these old obsolete A-bomb shelters over. Subsurface. Filled with supplies. She lived down in that.'

Hadley said, 'Is the shelter still over there ?'

'Of course. What would be the point of transporting it back ?'

'We'll live in that, then. Until we can build.'

'What happens when the food in the shelter runs out ? Assuming it hasn't already.'

Seating himself on the edge of Dar Pethel's desk, Hadley said, 'I called around. You can pick up one of those colonization units dirt cheap these days; the manufacturers are going broke because virtually nobody is emigrating. They're glad to get rid of one at any price, and the unit contains autonomic farming equipment, well-drilling rig, basic tools for...'

'Okay,' Pethel said, nodding. 'I know what those colonization units contain; I admit one of them can sustain you indefinitely. So you got that part figured out - not bad.'

With fat, sleek pride Hadley said, 'I've even arranged for the unit to be delivered at TD's offices in Washington later today.' He had thought of everything. 'Let's be realistic, Dar; a lot of people are going to be emigrating, and I want to get there first. I want things to be good for me and

Sparky. So will you write out whatever it'll take to get her and me into TD and into that

'scuttler ? I ought to have some priority; I was down in the repair department with Erickson when it happened, remember ?' He waited. Pethel said nothing. 'Come on,' Hadley said. 'The forces of time and change are running against you, Dar. And you know it, deep down inside.'

'Yes, but they always have,' Pethel murmured. He got a sheet of paper, brought out his pen. 'Are you really in - how did you describe it ? - love with her ?'

Hadley said, 'On my mother's honor.'

Wincing, Pethel began to write.

'I'll never forget you for this,' Hadley said. 'And I hate like hell to leave you stranded with no sales manager ... but it can't be helped; she's depending on me.' He explained, 'George Walt, you know, those two mutants who own the satellite, they closed everything down.'

Pethel ceased writing, lifted his head. 'No kidding.' He scowled. 'I wonder what that means. I

wonder what they have in mind.'

'Who cares what they have in mind ?' Hadley said fervently. 'I'm getting out of here.'

'But I'm not,' Pethel pointed out. He slowly resumed writing, deep in frowning thought.

When Leon Turpin, chairman of the board of directors of Terran Development, heard the news about the Pekes he was fit to be tied. How can we get any new industrial techniques out of that!

he asked himself. Dawn men don't have anything on the ball, technologically speaking.

'Flint axes,' Turpin spat out disappointedly. 'So that's what's over there; that's what hopped out of that childish glider. And we've expended a QB satellite, seven million dollars.' Of course there were still mineral rights. The Pekes, according to Don Stanley's report, definitely did not mine; therefore, everything below the soil remained intact.

But that was not enough. Turpin yearned for more. There had to be more. His mind reverted to the fallen satellite. They did manage to knock that out, he realized, and we're still having trouble doing that.

Across from him Don Stanley shifted about restlessly in his chair. 'If you'd like to see the Peking man we brought back, this Bill Smith, as the linguistics machine calls him - '

'If I want to see a Peking man,' Turpin said, 'I'll look in the Britannica. That's where they belong,

Stanley, not walking around on the face of the globe as if they owned it. But I guess it can't be helped, not at this late date.' From his desk he picked up a letter. 'Here's a young couple, Art and

Rachael Chaffy, that want to emigrate over there. The first of a horde. Why not ? Call them up and tell them to come by, and we'll let them go across.' He tossed the letter toward Eton Stanley.

'Should I explain to them the risks ?"

Turpin shrugged. 'I don't see why you should; that's not our business. Let them find out the hard way. Colonists are supposed to be hardy and brave. At least they used to be, in my time. Back in the twentieth century, when we first started landing on the planets. This certainly is no worse than that; in fact it's considerably better.'

'You've got a point, Mr. Turpin.' Stanley folded the letter and placed it in his breast pocket.

The intercom on Turpin's desk said, 'Mr. T, there's an official from the U.S. Department of

Special Public Welfare here to see you. It's Mr. Thomas Rosenfeld, commissioner of the department.'

Cabinet level, Turpin said to himself. A big man. Capable of setting policy. He said to the intercom, 'Send Mr. Rosenfeld in.' To Stanley he said, 'You know what this is going to be ?'

'Bibs,' Stanley said.

'I can't make up my mind whether to tell him or not,' Turpin said. The news about the Pekes would very soon, of course, begin to seep out; it was a temporary secret only. But still, that was better than nothing. The party had just returned from the other side, and the media people who had been along could not possibly have released the news through their services so soon.

Rosenfeld, then, did not know; he could assume that. And could deal with the man accordingly.

A tall, red-haired man, well-dressed, entered Turpin's office, smiling. 'Mr. Turpin ? What a pleasure. President Schwarz asked me to drop by here for a little while and sort of chat with you.

Sound you out, as it were. Is that an original Ramon Cadiz you have there on the wall behind you ?' Rosenfeld walked over to inspect it. 'White on white. His best period.

'I'd give the painting to you,' Turpin said, 'but it was a gift to me. I know you'll understand.' He lied in his feet, but why not ? Why, for purposes of mere etiquette, should he give away a costly work of art ? It made no sense.

Rosenfeld said, 'How's your defective 'scuttler functioning ? Still as defective as ever ? We're very interested in it. We were, even before Jim Briskin's speech ... President Schwarz was exceptionally quick - even for him - to spot the potentialities in this. I don't believe anyone else is able to reach a major decision as efficiently as he.'

This was odd, in view of the fact that no way existed by which Schwarz could have known about the break-through prior to Briskin's speech, Turpin realized. However, he let this pass. Politics was politics.

Don Stanley spoke up. 'How many sleepers do you have in the fedgov warehouses, Mr.

Rosenfeld ?

'Well,' Rosenfeld said dryly, 'the figure generally given is close to seventy million. But actually the true number at this date is more like one hundred million.' He smiled a wry, humorless smile that was more a grimace than anything else.

Whistling, Stanley said, 'That's a lot.'

'Yes, ' Rosenfeld agreed. 'We admit it. Domestically speaking, it's the number one headache here in Washington. Of course as you very well know, this administration inherited it from the last.'

'You want us to put your hundred million bibs through into this alternate Earth ?' Turpin spoke up, weary of formalities.

'If the situation is such that...'

'We can do it,' Turpin said shortly. 'But you understand our role in this is simply a technologic one. We provide the means of conveyance to this other 'Earth, but we make no warranty as to the conditions that obtain over there. We're not anthropologists or sociologists or whoever it is that knows about such things.'

Rosenfeld nodded. 'That's understood. We're not going to try to compel you to produce any given set of conditions, over there. Your job, as you say, is merely to get the persons across, and the rest is up to them. The government takes the identical position regarding itself; we put forth no warranty, either. This will be strictly on an as-is basis. If the settlers don't like what they find, they can return.'

To himself Turpin thought acutely: So Schwarz doesn't actually care what happens to them after they emigrate. He just wants those warehouses empty and the enormous financial drain involved abolished.

'As to our costs ...' Turpin began.

'We've worked out a proposed schedule,' Rosenfeld said, digging into his briefcase. 'Per capita and then extrapolated. Basing this on the figure of one hundred million persons, this is what we feel would be an equitable return for your corporation.' He slid a folded document to Leon

Turpin and sat back to wait

Turpin, examining the figure, blanched.

Coming around behind him, Don Stanley also looked. He grunted and said in a strained voice,

That's a good deal of money, Mr. Rosenfeld.'

'It's a good deal of a problem.' Rosenfeld said, candidly.

Glancing up, Turpin said, 'It's actually worth that much to you ?'

'Our costs in the Dept of SPW are ...' Rosenfeld gestured. 'Let's simply say they're excessive.'

But that doesn't explain this figure, Turpin decided. However, I know what does. If you can get the ball rolling light away, get the bibs started on their trek to the alter-Earth, you'll have deprived Jim Briskin of his major appeal. Why vote for Briskin when the incumbent is already shipping the bibs across as rapidly as possible ?

As rapidly as possible. Turpin thought suddenly: But just how rapidly is that ? To Don Stanley he said, 'How fast can full-grown human beings be put through that rent ?'

'It would have to be one at a time,' Stanley said, after a thoughtful pause. 'Since it's not very large. In fact, as you probably recall, you have to stoop down to get through.'

With pencil and paper Turpin began to calculate.

Allowing five seconds for each person - which was not a great deal - the time involved in conveying one hundred million bibs across would be approximately twenty years.

Seeing the figures, Don Stanley said, 'But they don't care; they're asleep. For them twenty years is...'

'But I imagine Mr. Rosenfeld cares,' Turpin said caustically.

'Is that how long it would require ?' Rosenfeld looked a little unnerved. 'That is a long time.'

Turpin reflected that Bill Schwarz, by the time the job had been completed, would have been out of office sixteen years. Probably totally forgotten, to boot. So there was no use trying to sell the fedgov on the idea. The time element would simply have to be cut down.

To Don Stanley, Turpin said, 'Can that rent be enlarged ?'

Pondering, Stanley answered, 'Probably. Increased grid voltage or oscillation within the field as it...'

'I don't want to know how,' Turpin said. "I just want to see it done.' If two persons could pass through simultaneously, the time would be cut to ten years. And four at once, only five years.

That might satisfy the politicians in the White House.

'Five years would be acceptable,' Rosenfeld said, when he had looked over Turpin's figures.

'We'll finalize on that basis, then,' Don Stanley said. But he had a worried expression on his face, and Turpin knew why. Don was thinking, Can it be done ? Can we enlarge the rent that much ?

Rising, Rosenfeld said, 'Good enough. Legal people from my department will draw up the contract in the next day or so, and procurement will go through the process of validating it. Red tape - we can't seem to get away from it. But this will give you time to implement your engineering changes.'

'It was nice meeting you, Mr. Rosenfeld,' Turpin said, as they shook hands. 'I presume we'll see you again from time to time as this matter is expedited.'

'I find it highly rewarding, working with you, sir,' Rosenfeld said. 'And I admire your taste in art; that's only the second Ramon Cadiz I've seen this year. Good day, Mr. Turpin. Mr. Stanley.'

The door closed after Rosenfeld.

Presently Don Stanley said, 'They like being in office.'

'Everybody likes being in office,' Turpin said. 'We call that human nature.' He wondered what the government would do when the news about the Pekes appeared in every homeopape in the country. Rescind the contract ? Abandon the whole idea ?

He doubted it. Either Schwarz did this or he lost in November; it was as simple as that Pekes or no Pekes. Of course, the president would send a few Marine commando units to accompany the bibs, to make certain that all was in order. Alter-Earth might require an interval of pacifying, to say the least. But it could be done. Turpin had no doubt of it."

And anyhow that was not TD's problem - TD had its technological hands full already. Enlarging the rent in the 'scuttler might very well prove to be impossible, at least within the time available to TD's technicians.

But I want this contract, Leon Turpin said to himself. I want it very badly, enough to do everything I can to acquire it. Perhaps the solution is to fabricate another Jiffi-scuttler, identical to the one downstairs, hopefully malfunctioning in the same way. Or two or five or even ten of them, with bibs passing in single file through each, in unending lines.

What about equipment ? Turpin asked himself suddenly. Rosenfeld had not expressed himself in that area. Was the government going to turn these people loose in an alien world with no hardware ? Without proper machinery the colony on the other side would be nothing more than a huge DP camp. To function at all, the colony had to be self-sustaining; that was obvious to anyone who took the trouble to think about it ten minutes. And it would take time, a good deal of time, to ferry across sufficient gear for one hundred million people; the logistics of it would be incredible. It would be something like thirty-three times the problem of supply on D-day, back in

World War Two. The government was out of its mind. The policy planners were so enmeshed in the political significance of the alter-Earth that they had lost sight of factual reality.

It could easily become the grandest confusion in recorded times.

But I refuse to worry about that, Leon Turpin reminded himself. It's not my responsibility; mine's discharged in the drayage. If things get too far out of hand too soon, Schwarz will be bounced right out of office and the burden will fall on Jim Briskin or whatever his name is. And that's just where it ought to be, because it was his speech that got this all started.

'Get everyone downstairs assembled in one spot where they can hear you,' Turpin instructed Don

Stanley.

'How much time do you estimate we've got ?' Stanley asked.

'Days. Merely days. There's a presidential campaign going on, or had that slipped your mind ?

We've already given Briskin a boost by letting Frank Woodbine talk us into conveying him over there; now let's see what we can do for Bill Schwarz.' And what we can do for Schwarz is a good deal more than we did for Briskin. Which was, in itself, rather substantial.

Don Stanley departed, to make the situation known to the experts on level one. As he passed out through the office door one of Leon Turpin's many secretaries entered. 'Mr. Turpin, there's a young couple on floor five who sent this up to you; they said you should see it at once.' The secretary added, 'It's from Mr. Pethel.'

'Who's Mr. Pethel ?' The name did not ring a bell.

'The owner of the Jiffi-scuttler, sir. The one downstairs in the lab; you know, the important one.'

She presented him with the message.

Opening it, Leon Turpin saw at a glance that it consisted of a request for him to permit the young couple, Mr. and Mrs. Hadley, to make use of Pethels 'scuttler in order to emigrate to alter-Earth.

Time was of the essence, for reasons Pethel did not choose to state.

'All right,' Turpin said to the girl, 'I have no objection and we have to cater to this Pethel person to some extent.' As he laid the message on his desk, he once more noticed the application from the other young couple, Art and Rachael Chaffy. That's right, he remembered. Don was supposed to call them, but I guess he forgot in all the excitement. Well, he can do it later. He's got their letter with him.

The Chaffys and the Hadleys can compete, Turpin reflected, as to who becomes the first

American family to emigrate to alter-Earth. I suppose there should be some publicity attached to this. Homeopape reporters, TV newsmen and the like. President Schwarz cutting a big blue ribbon hung across the entrance hoop of the 'scuttler. Or perhaps a bottle of champagne swung against the side of the 'scuttler and an heroic name given it.

To the secretary he said, 'Ask the Hadleys to come up here to my office.'

Several minutes later she returned and with her came a blond, genial-looking young man and a fabulously-attractive red-headed girl who seemed sheepish and ill-at-ease.

'Sit down,' Leon Turpin said in a friendly voice.

'Mr. Bethel's my boss,' Hadley said. 'Rather, my ex-boss. I had to quit in order to emigrate.' He and 'Mrs. Hadley' seated themselves. 'This is the greatest moment in our entire lives. We're going to start a new life.' Hadley squeezed his 'wife's' hand. 'Right ?'

'Yes,' she murmured almost inaudibly, nodding. She did not look at Turpin directly, and he wondered why.

I've seen this girl somewhere before, Turpin realized. But where ?

'Are you fully equipped ?' he asked the Hadleys.

Briskly, Hadley gave him a long list of items they were taking; it sounded complete, if not ornate. Turpin wondered idly how they expected to lug it all across. Nobody on floor one would be offering them a hand; that was certain.

'Children,' Leon Turpin said, 'Terran Development is glad to contribute to a new awakening, both metaphorically and quite literally, of the young people of America...' And then, abruptly, he remembered where he met full-breasted, young Mrs. Hadley before. He had gotten her at the

Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite. After all, he visited it twice a week, had done so ever since it had been built.

This is really terribly appropriate, Turpin said to himself, hiding his glee. The first couple to emigrate to the new world consists of a customer of the Golden Door satellite escaping with one of Thisbe Olt's girls. Too bad this could not be made public. It was delightful.

'I wish you two luck,' Leon Turpin said, and giggled.